


The Edge of Offshore

by rasko1nikov



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Best Friends, Denial of Feelings, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, High School, Homoeroticism, Jealousy, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Military, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Platonic Relationships, Slow Burn, Tags Are Hard, like way too many pretentious literary refs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-23 14:14:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30056721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rasko1nikov/pseuds/rasko1nikov
Summary: After being uprooted from the familiar comfort of his life, moving to a military base in coastal Italy in compliance with his grandfather's job as a military strategist, Armin Arlert had made his decision; he was to wade through his two last years of high school as a completely untouchable, unremarkable force. He strains against the tugging of his own loneliness, substituting friends with the predictable words of literary classics.But Eren and Mikasa enter, landmarks of unhinged youth and wild friendship, giving Armin the type of nostalgic bond that he'd only ever read about in books. In the midst of his new life, he navigates friendship, falling in love, and the insatiable force that wills us to grow.(AKA Armin and Eren and Mikasa are little fucks who talk too much about literature and pretentious shit. Also there's alot of homoeroticism)(Repost after I orphaned the original work)
Relationships: Armin Arlert/Eren Yeager, Krista Lenz | Historia Reiss/Ymir, Mikasa Ackerman & Armin Arlert & Eren Yeager, Mikasa Ackerman & Eren Yeager, Mikasa Ackerman/Jean Kirstein
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost because I, the idiot I am, accidentally orphaned the original work. Oops lol. More notes at the end.

As he stepped onto the ground- the first Italian soil his feet had ever touched- Armin Arlert willed the ground to swallow him completely, enveloping his bones, eyes, brain, and all the thoughts of which it screamed. But his shoes touched dirt and, much to his disappointment, remained above ground. What a shame. 

“Armin!”, a rusted voice jolted him from his thoughts. He looked over to see his grandfather had left the boat’s dock completely, and was starting to drown in the flooding crowds. Armin ran, his bag hitting his legs in a pitter-patter rhythm, to his grandfather’s side. 

“Sorry,” he said, taking his grandfather's hand only to drop it a moment later once he spared it some thought. He was too old for such things. 

He looked around. The sky and sea shared a greyish color, a mournful quality, much different than the cartoonish blue he’d seen in pictures. He wasn’t disappointed, though. He was well suited for grey.  
Most of the buildings were fisherman-style with wood that looked like it’d started to fade before Armin was born. American flags were strung on nearly every door. They seemed to be as essential to the buildings as the doors themselves. What struck him, as he and his grandfather advanced away from the dock and into the streets, was the slow, moseying stream of people. The town seemed not quite awake, or perhaps the first few moments of awakeness on a Sunday morning, eyes crusted with sleep. Armin rubbed his eyes just thinking about it. He looked over to see his grandfather talk to a cab driver and walked over.

Once they were huddled in the tightness of a backseat (it smelled of cigarettes and something pickled) his grandfather tried to make small talk with the driver, but earned mostly grunts in response.  
Armin leaned on the thick glass but his eyes flickered to the car’s carpet and he allowed his thoughts to meander aimlessly. He thought of the school which he would have to attend and the kids who would occupy it. 

When his grandfather first informed him that they’d be forced to move, he had refused to eat in protest- he camped in his room, perched at the desk under his loft bed, scratching angry words in his journal. But then he smelt his grandfather cooking hot soup just the way his mother used to, and as he looked at the red, angry words on the paper, he felt his anger melt defeatedly under a glaze of shame. 

At first he thought perhaps the new environment might fulfill his dreams of exploration. His childhood was filled to the brim with daydreams of foreign spaces and people who he might write about and share with the world. He’d wonder if there was a single squarefoot left of this pitiful planet that had never been grasped by the touch of another human. He supposed it was unlikely, but stored the dream in a back pocket, only to be visited during the latest of nights or the bleakest of classes. Still, he treasured the idea of untouched territory, of things his eyes would be the first to spill over. 

When he heard his grandfather had been relocated to a base in Italy, he became infatuated with visions of the domed ceilings and nude statues his books had fabricated, only to be informed they’d be moving to a coastal town- an American embassy of sorts- with a population that could fit comfortably in a highschool football stadium, and so the romance of Italy was butchered in poor Armin’s mind. 

His eyes stayed trained to the ground until the cab lulled to a halt and his grandfather shuffled around his pockets for cash. The street they pulled into was called Keswick. The air was sticky as he opened the cab door, and he quickly missed the coolness of the car.

_____

This house was smaller than their old one. It had an unfriendly quality, all stiff and beige, and gave Armin the uncanny feeling of being in a hotel. There wasn’t a master suite, only two bedrooms which were conjoined by a single bathroom. Armin’s room had a sheetless bed, an empty dresser, and a desk which faltered when he shifted his weight on it. Unpacking was a laborless task, he hardly owned enough clothes to fill all the drawers and ended up using the space to store the extra books which wouldn’t fit on his desk. 

He sat on his naked bed, cradling his copy of Watership Down. How odd it was to see his fine little things; his books and pens and shoes, in this strange room with wall-to-wall carpet that made his feet itch. He supposed he’d have to wear socks in the house. His room had one window, which revealed a house identical to the rest on the block. The stuffiness of the room began to cling to Armin’s skin, so he moved to crank the glass open. 

Outside, there was a girl who was hanging laundry on a wire. Armin instinctively moved behind his wall, out of view, in fear he might be seen and accused of staring. He peeked out, cautiously this time. The girl had choppy black hair and shouted in English towards her own home. He watched her run beneath the line of shade, and the bluish undertone of her hair vanished into pure black as it left the sun. 

She was pretty enough, he decided, but moved with something boyish in her stride. She stayed under the shade of a tree for a while, and Armin decided he had been watching for too long.  
That night, eating boxed pasta and coke with his grandfather as the wet heat of summer blanketed their walls, they sat in silence. The song of cicadas filtered through opened windows and there was an unnamable tension which was felt by all but spoken by none. 

_____

Before he had even started school, Armin decided that his goal was to wade through his two last years of highschool as unremarkably as possible. He would float through the hallways of school unnoticed by his peers as they clumped together in social groups, often piling on one another in the hall, spitting out crewd jokes and naughty words. He wasn’t lonely, he didn’t wonder what it was they whispered in each other's ears when one would erupt into a fit of stifled laughter, or about the games they played in the corridors, shoving each other into lockers and snatching each other's books. When he rode his bike to the library on Friday nights, he stopped in front of the houses that blared popular music and had a stream of kids coming in and out, red cups in hand, he certainly didn’t feel a metallic pull, drawing him towards the groups of laughing people. No, he wasn’t lonely, or at least that’s what he told himself. 

Unremarkable, at least for Amin, excluded his work ethic. He still performed higher than the other students, receiving the best marks in his grade. He often saw his teachers eyeing him in class, willing him to speak or participate in a way that resembled his quality of work. Who was the quiet boy who’s essays were of a quality even the teachers couldn’t match? The boy who never spoke, and spent his classes with his arms folded across his desk, gazing out the window, with a look nothing short of discontentment in his eyes? 

“Mr. Arlert,” Armin’s eyes shot up at the sound of his name. Class had ended and he was carefully putting his books back into his bag. He sighed when he realized the teacher was talking to him. It was last quarter and he wanted to return to the serenity of his wobbly room. 

It was Mr. Smith who had called him over. Armin liked him well enough, though sometimes he thought his passions for English and his inherent talents for teaching it were undeserved by Armin’s peers, who he assumed by their disinterest, only took the class to look at Mr. Smith. He walked over to the teacher’s desk. 

“Yes, sir?” Armin said boredly. Might as well get this over with as painless as possible, he thought.

“Those textbooks must be heavy. You know you’re the only student who uses the physical books.” Yes, Armin had quickly noticed he was the only student who used real textbooks. He was also the only student who took the time to annotate them. He realized it was perhaps counterproductive to his agenda of becoming a completely invisible, unremarkable force. He didn’t care.

“I just prefer them, sir.” 

“The digital copies might be more forgiving on your back.” 

“You would be quite the chiropractor.” He winced, too late realizing how ill tempered it sounded.

“Ah, forgive me. I was only trying to make small talk.” Armin nodded in response, and Mr. Smith folded his hands across his desk and peered down at them. He rubbed his knuckles tiredly. 

“I’m sure you’re aware that the quality of your work exceeds that of any of your peers,” Mr. Smith started. 

“Thank you” Armin started.

“Hold on, Mr. Arlert. Your work is impressive, you convey a deep understanding of the class’s material and think critically of the content. But you don’t participate.”

Ah, there it was, Armin thought. He swallowed.

“The class could use your mind. Not only that, speaking up might do you some good,” Mr. Smith continued, “I say this only because I want to see you thrive.”

“Of course,” Armin replied. 

“I’m glad we agree. Now, I don’t want to stress you. But I will be forced to dock your participation grade if I don’t see more efforts being made.”

“I understand.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Mr. Smith stood from his chair, forcing Armin’s head to tilt upwards in order to maintain eye contact. It made Armin feel small. He wondered if that was Mr. Smith’s intention. But looking at his formal smile which contained something paternal, Armin decided it wasn’t. 

“You’re dismissed, Armin. Have a nice day.”

“Thank you, sir. You as well.” Armin said. As he made his way to exit, with one hand on the door, he heard Mr. Smith from behind him. 

“And Armin,” he said, “No need to call me sir.”

“Yes-” Armin started, thinking of a word to substitute it. When he couldn’t, he abandoned the sentence and walked out the door.

_____

Armin sat, once again, in Mr. Smith’s class. There was a discussion going on, but Armin couldn’t be bothered to lend more than half his attention to the cause. He listened idly out of one ear. 

“Alright, I get what Golding is trying to get at. But any sane person would probably just, like, build a fire and learn to hunt. All this cultish tribal stuff? It’d never actually happen. The writer just wants to be, I don’t know, metaphorical, I guess”, a kid from the front of the class piped up. Armin rolled his eyes.

“An interesting thought, Mr. Kirstein.”, Mr. Smith replied with a smile. His mouth strained across his face, looking almost slightly pained but masking it with friendliness. Armin almost felt sorry for him.

“Exactly,” said a girl from behind Armin, “Normal boys would never go crazy like this. Its basic civility.” Armin rolled his eyes again. At this rate, they would be starting to ache.

Armin heard a snort from somewhere next to him. He looked over his shoulder and was met with the stare of a boy sitting a few seats away. He was leaning against the back of his chair, with his feet pushing the first two legs off the ground. Armin had heard of students getting injured, concussed even, from sitting like that. He tssked to himself. 

The boy had choppy hair and something dark in his eyes, and there was something dirty about him. He had harsh eyebrows that rested above startling, untamed eyes. They flickered towards Armin, paired with the slightest of smiles. The look was mixed with something short of a grimace, and seemed to be saying, 

“Fucking idiots”

Armin raised his eyebrows but smiled back at him all the same. There was something about him that Armin liked. Something in the unhinged, crazed look of the boy’s nature made Armin want to capture it, hold it between his fingers and thumb. Perhaps he’d like to squash it beneath his shoe.

“Mr. Yaeger?” started Mr. Smith, his eyes flickering over to the boy, “Is there something you’d like to say? I’m sure the class is eager to hear your contributions.” He gestured to the rows of students paralleling him.

The boys stared away from Armin and back towards the front of the classroom, where Mr. Smith stood impatiently tapping his foot. 

“No, sir”

“Ah,” said Mr. Smith, “Any matter, I’m sure William Golding would be enamored by your opinions on his symbolism, Mr. Kirstein .” To this, the brown haired girl grinned proudly at the prospect of praise, no matter the implied sarcasm which only Armin seemed to catch. 

When class ended, Armin strayed afterwards to fit his books into his bags, but also to watch as the boy from before strayed behind idly, looming over his bookbag and not seeming to complete any actual task.

“Mr. Arlert, do you have a moment?” He heard Mr. Smith call from his desk.

“You know I always do, Sir.” 

“Tell me, Armin, what you thought of the discussion amongst your peers today.”

“I don’t know. I think I would have said things differently, had I spoken.”

“And why didn’t you?”

Armin said nothing in response. His eyes slipped to the corner of the room, unintentionally, like they lacked direction from his brain, where the boy stood, still packing his bags. 

“Armin, what would you have said today?” 

When had Mr. Smith started calling him Armin? When had they dropped such formalities? He shifted his weight between his feet, feeling suddenly aware of the breeze that spurred past his neck.

“I’d have to think about it. Maybe that Jack isn’t meant to be fully insane. He’s a personification of humanity’s ugliest crevices.” 

Mr. Smith stayed quiet and rested his chin upon a strong but wilting hand, waiting. The lights in the classroom were fluorescent, molding the sharp angles, deep lines, harsh features of Mr. Smith’s face with in medical quality. 

“That man’s most intrinsic state, once we strip and rid ourselves of the rules of diplomacy and codes of conduct, abandoning the machine-sewn clothing we wear and titles of status we hold, we exist in an insatiable search for power. One that bears no regard for the morale of bloodshed or the livelihood of others. It exists in all of us, to some extent, not just a select, crazed few.”

Mr. Smith regarded him for a moment, then turned his attention to the other boy still in the room. He had most definitely been listening to Armin. 

“Mr. Yaeger,” Mr. Smith said towards the boy, “Is there a reason you’ve stayed behind after class? Have you come to discuss the metaphoric philosophy of William Golding?”

The boy’s eyes shot up, still intense and shocking. He shook his head quickly, muttering an apology that sounded more like a choked-out sputter than anything else, before hurrying out of the room.

“I know we’ve had this conversation before,” Mr. Smith started, turning his eyes back to Armin, “But the class might benefit from hearing your thoughts. Evidently, they’ve already grasped the interest of one student.” He motioned to the door that the boy had rushed out of, still swinging slightly from being pushed so suddenly.  
_____

The first weeks of October were something of a dream, days bled together unreliably and merged into each other like dominoes on a slant. The days of the week became irrelevant (much like they do during summer breaks as a child, when there was no school to regulate any confinement of school or scheduling) with the rare piercings (the occasional fight at school, which Armin always was witness to but never involved, or the rare bad grade) of occurrence which would snap Armin violently back into his linear timeline, reminding him of his growing time at the base, until he would begin to lose himself in the habit and isolation once again. 

Riding his bike to the libraries was something he’d taken up, until it became such a common occurrence that he felt guilty acknowledging it as anything but a habit, a minor addiction. His legs, always so weak and slim before, built up what they could in muscle, and he grew a fondness for feeling the wind grasp around his arms as he rode. 

He stepped past the threshold of the library with his books tucked away securely in the crook of his arm, nodding to the librarian. She knew him now, which at first embarrassed Armin (what did that say about him, he wondered, that the librarian knew him?) but soon melted into a comforting presence whenever he entered the building. 

He placed the books on the counter delicately enough so they wouldn’t make a sound. Not that he necessarily needed to be quiet, the building was a few staglers short from empty, but nonetheless he placed them down with the delicacy of a glass which might crack under the slightest of pressure. 

“I’d like to return these,” he said, “I know they’re overdue. I couldn’t find the time to finish them earlier in the week.” The librarian looked up at him over the curve of her glasses, tipping them downwards with the push of her finger. 

“Hm. Your school account will be fined. Return them as late as you please if you’re okay with the charges.” She replied. 

“Uh. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“I’d hope so. This ones in high demand,” she said, motioning to the book resting at the bottom of the lot. Armin found that hard to believe. He wasn’t sure what else there was to be said, so he muttered a quick apology before wandering towards the shelves. 

He didn’t have a book in mind, he never did, but he usually just skimmed the books until one caught his interest. As he walked, he briefly noticed a head of dark hair, which, when he turned his head to see better, belonged to the girl he knew to live next door. 

He realized, firstly, that without the separation of many feet and a glass window between them, that the girl was quite a bit taller than he was. He noticed, secondly, that in her stride held the regality of someone of great importance, but also the agile of someone who didn’t quite belong in a school. Armin bared this in mind as he approached the area in which she stood staring at the books. He chose to stand in the patch of floor next to her, pretending to look for something specific. 

“Are you looking for something?” She said. Shit, Armin thought. He hadn’t planned this far ahead.

“Oh. Yea,” He quickly looked at the names of authors in this section, spotting A Tale of Two Cities. Dickens. 

“Dostoevsky,” he said finally, the first “D” author that came to mind.

“Ha,” she said, “Are you the ‘ends justify the means’ sort?” 

He didn’t suppose he was. Armin thought about it for a moment. He had never read Crime and Punishment, or any Dostoevsky for that matter. 

“No,” he said. 

“You might not like it then.” she replied. Armin didn’t see how that alone could dictate whether he would like it or not, but he said nothing. 

“Dostoevsky’s over there,” she added, nodding over to a section of books a few feet away, “they say you have to read it in Russian though. The mother language.”

“Thanks.” Armin said and walked over, looking down at the books she referenced. They were all thickly spined, even for Armin. Now he’d be returning home with an obese book he had no intention of reading, and no new friend. This thought startled him, because he hadn’t even realized he had approached the girl in order to befriend her in the first place.

“I think I’ve seen you before,” he started, “I live on Keswick,” 

“I know. I see you get on your bike sometimes.” she said, stepping forward to invade the awkward distance between them. “Your hair,” she added, gesturing above her head, “it looks funny with the helmet.” 

Armin thought to never wear the helmet again. He’d already hated its clunkiness, and huffed and puffed when his grandfather forced him to wear it. He’d never seen the neighborhood kids with bike helmets strapped onto them like life preserves, yet he wore it anyway, not wanting to bring his grandfather any grief. 

“Oh” He said, touching a wisp of hair that hung sadly next to his cheek. He pulled on it slightly, feeling a string of self consciousness tug in his stomach. 

“I like it, though. It’s sort of medieval.” she added.

“Thanks, I think. I’m Armin. I just moved here.” 

“I figured just as much. Carla wanted to make you something when she saw the trucks hauling furniture in. I don’t think she ever got around to it, though.” she said. Armin didn’t know who Carla was, but didn’t feel like asking. 

“I’m Mikasa, by the way. Ackerman.” She added. 

“Armin,” he said in response, “Armin Arlert.” 

“So you’ve mentioned. So are you going to get a book, Armin Arlert? Or did you come over just to make my acquaintance.” 

“Oh. Right.” Armin reached for one of the books with Dostoevsky written in tiny, slanted letters. It felt like a brick in his hands. He looked outside and noticed that the day’s blue had begun to darken, allowing the moon to peak out in all its bare, whiteness. It would be dark soon. 

“I have to go. Thanks for the book” said Armin, tapping it lightly against his palm. 

He left the library after checking out and mounted his bike, Dostoevsky sitting in his basket like a weight. 

When he got home, he sat with it on the table next to him, flushed by the homey illumination of a lamp. His grandfather walked in without Armin realizing (he had a habit of doing that. His time in the military gifted him the ability to walk soundlessly with heavy gear, lacking even the most minimal of noise) and peered over his glasses at the book, tipping it upwards to read the title. 

“Crime and Punishment?” his grandfather said. Armin hummed in response. “You know, they say you have to read it in Russian. To understand it in its fullest.”

“I think I heard that somewhere.” Armin replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will most likely be a series, as I have multiple chapters written already. I know he's barely in it now, but I swear there will be more Eren! I'm so excited to write their bond (as well as their bonds with Mikasa) because they are my favs. This is mostly writing practice for me, just to get my writing out somehow, as well as a distraction from the canon (because we all need a break from the heartbreaking chaos of the canon universe lmfao) Lowk just wanted to write a pretentious homoerotic aot fic. 
> 
> Any feedback whatsoever is greatly appreciated! I am a new writer so I have much to learn.
> 
> Also I'm gonna keep track of literary references for shits and giggles. The first one is "Lord of the Flies" in the classroom scene, and "Crime and Punishment" in the library.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eren and Armin actually converse in this one (not clickbait)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear there will be actual plot and events eventually lol
> 
> ty for the kudos!! any feedback is appreciated as i am a new writer. 
> 
> the painting references is 'the goldfinch' by carel fabritius btw. no literary references in this chap oops.

Armin wasn’t sure if his interaction with Mikasa was enough to constitute a friendship, but he realized he had subconsciously been hoping it would, when he saw her pull into her driveway on a wobbly red bike. Initially he hadn’t seen her, only heard the scream of her rusted breaks as she steered them onto the cement. The noise was enough to pull Armin away from his book, almost gravitationally, and peer out the window. 

He watched her unmount her bike, willing her to look his way and feeling his stomach sink past the shitty, stained wall-to-wall carpeting when she didn’t. 

He cursed himself as he sat down on his bed. Hadn’t he sworn himself into indifference? Wasn’t that the one condition he arrived to this odd place on? Was he so weak that the slightest conversation could break the seal of his isolation, leaving him to finally feel the loneliness he’d fought so very hard to hide away? 

But the door had already been opened, the damage already done, so he sat on his bed, wishing he hadn’t gotten up at all. 

The scream of Mikasa’s wheels hitting the pavement eventually nestled into a patternistic element of Armin’s routine. She came home at around the same time every day (just as the dusk was starting to settle and the streets would gain their ritualistic quiet) and he’d anticipate hearing her fiddle with the chains that locked her bike in place. Each day he’d think about shouting out to her, maybe invite her inside, and every day he would curse under his breath as he heard the screen of her door slide shut before he could muscle out of his chair. 

Enough, he thought one day as the judder of Mikasa’s bike made its way into his room as he was straightening a line of pencils, a habit he’d only picked up out of sheer boredom, She’s only a girl.  
But that, he consummated, was largely a problem. 

It wasn’t that Armin had no experience with them, but that the ones who were closest to him had plainly always been at his side. Most of his friends, growing up, were girls. He preferred their soft voices, the clean way they’d play, over that of the boys, who often had only mean things to say about small Armin. When they were younger, just old enough to pick out which of the group could be easily picked on but not quite comprehensive enough to conclude why, they’d snatch up their playthings before Armin could reach for them and join in. 

When they grew up, when their legs grew taller and their shoulders broader with voices that deepened to match, Armin stayed the same pitiful height with a girlish haircut, and they were able to pinpoint what it was they didn’t like, what was different, and in consequence, it became quite the unspoken ordeal. The direct teasing stopped, the tripping and ugly smiles and poking fingers and were replaced with a knowing silence that, to Armin, was almost worse. The venom was still there, but it came in the form of cruel, whispered words and chairs that scooted away when he sat down.  
And so Armin, at the ripe age of 5, realized where he wasn’t wanted. So he played with the girls, which he found was actually much nicer, with their silky hands that were never crusted with mud, and their words that were never laced with something poisonous. 

As he got older he started noticing the certain quirks that made boys divert their eyes and snicker in the stairwells. He worked hard to hide them. He learned what the boys his age liked and the way they’d speak about them. He’d watch them silently from the back of the classroom until he could replicate their mannerisms as if they were his own, as if they were as intrinsic to him as the skin on his back..  
The problem with Mikasa, however, rested in how he wasn’t able to analyze her in such a manner. How would he predict their conversations? How would he shape his personality, his character, into something she could be fond of, if the type of bike she rode was the furthest extent he knew of her? 

Enough, he thought again, and pushed his chair away from his desk, leading it ro roll over to his window. 

“Mikasa!” He shouted, leaning out the opened part of his window. 

Hearing her name, her body jolted in its place, as if it were shocked by a sudden bolt of electricity, and Armin felt bad for startling her. She looked up at him, her shoulders lowering along with her guard when she saw Armin waving out his window.

“Sorry!” He shouted, this time slightly quieter with a self conscious falter in between syllables. 

She walked over, crossing the cement barrier between their yards, into the patch of soil that rested below Armin's window. She was slightly shorter than him under his windowsill, and Armin felt a strange imbalance. He guessed it had to do with the height. 

“How’s Dostoevsky treating you?” She asked.

“It’s alright” He lied. He hadn’t touched the book since the night at the library. She rapped her knuckles against his windowsill, in a soft, tapping movement. 

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he added a moment later, “Sorry about that.”

“You didn’t scare me. I don’t scare easily,” She said, shrugging slightly, “I just wasn’t expecting you.”

“Oh?” He replied. 

“You’ve been watching me park my bike for what- three weeks now? And you’ve never said anything. I figured you’d pipe up eventually,” she said, looking away from Armin, “I guess I was right.”

“It's not that I didn’t want to say hello,” Armin started quickly, as if trying to compensate for something, 

"I just didn’t know where to start.” Mikasa nodded. 

“Carla was worried. She thought we’d been inhospitable neighbors.” 

Again with this Carla person, Armin thought before Mikasa continued. 

“Eren said I scared you off with my bikes’ brakes. They can be a bit offensive.” 

“I hardly noticed them. The brakes I mean.” Armin lied.

“That’s nice, but I see you watch as I pull in sometimes.”

“Oh.” He said.

Mikasa turned her head towards her house and looked at it for a moment.

“You should probably come inside. Meet Carla. She’ll be glad to know you don’t hate us.” She said. 

“Why would we hate you?” Armin asked. Mikasa shrugged in response. 

“I told her you’re just shy sometime after we met in the library. But you might want to come in anyways. Just to put her at ease.”  
With that, Armin agreed. He looked in the mirror as he passed by it, briefly wondering if he should change but then remembered Mikasa was waiting outside. 

“Going out?” His grandfather asked, not looking up from the book which he was hunched unceremoniously over. 

“I’m meeting the neighbors. They invited me over.” This made his grandfather peer over from where he stood. 

“You’ll have to go empty handed,” he said with a sigh, “They might be offended. Is that something that Europeans do?” 

“I don’t think so. She just invited me. The girl isn’t even European, I don’t think. I mean, her name is Mikasa ” 

“Alright. If it can’t be helped, it can’t be helped. Give them my regards. Tell them I’ve meant to stop by. Maybe invite them over for dinner. I’ll have to learn to cook something”

“I will,” Armin said, moving towards the front door again. 

When he made it outside, Mikasa stood, gallant and strong under the soft glow of the streetlight, with wiff of heroism in her stance. He noticed that, on leveled land, she was once again taller than him. Balance was restored. Her hands were cupped around her mouth and she was shouting in what he thought to be Italian (with words that slanted into each other neatly, much cleaner than English, he thought) to a woman who stood on the porch. 

“Come” said Mikasa, motioning for Armin to follow as she walked towards the house. Together, they walked up to the woman, who now stood with her hands folded over on another. 

Armin looked at her. She had dark hair that was pulled into a knot at the back of her head, with wisps that frayed out disobediently. Her eyes folded at the corners, with matching lines on each side of her mouth, which hinted that she’d spent her life smiling. Her eyes had a wild quality, something animalistic yet oddly familiar, that left Armin wondering if he’d seen them somewhere before.  
The two conversed briefly in Italian, spitting out sentences of words he didn’t understand, although he thought he caught an ‘Arlert’ somewhere in the flow. Suddenly they stopped talking and both turned to him. 

“This is Armin,” Mikasa said. 

“My grandfather and I have been meaning to stop by. He’s just busy with his work and, well, unpacking and all.” Armin started hurriedly. 

“I’m Carla Yeager,” She said. The name rang with familiarity, but it was different than the last name Mikasa had given him. He looked between the two, realizing they looked very little, if not completely nothing alike. 

“Come inside, soon my husband will be home with my son. I can make tea while we wait.”

“Mikasa didn’t tell me she had a brother.” Armin said, looking over at her. 

“Its complicated.” Mikasa said quietly.

Armin followed Carla inside a house with the same layout as his own, the same white appliances, the same black and white checkered tiles, the yellow light that leaked out of dim overhead lights. This house, however, had something much warmer than Armin's. As he walked through the halls that mirrored his own, feeling like he’d wandered into some homier, better decorated alternative reality, he shuddered with a sudden coldness as he remembered the pitiful beige walls of his own home.

“What grade did you say you’re in, Armin?” Carla asked as they made their way into a kitchen. He could smell something from the oven and his heart buckled when he tried to remember the last time meals consisted of something more personal than takeout containers. 

“11th,” he replied. 

“Same as Eren and Mikasa. Sit.” She said, gesturing to the table as she reached into a cupboard, more as a demand than an invitation.

“Eren?” Armin said. Carla opened her mouth to reply but was interrupted by the sound of keys fitting through a lock. 

“Grisha?” Carla called out.

A man appeared in the doorway wearing a long coat which bellowed behind him as he entered the room. He had longer hair that curled around his shoulders, but it wasn’t girlish the way Armin’s was. He held himself with a certain dignity, similar to Mikasa, but had sunken, gray eyes hidden behind half-moon glasses. He was skinny, frail almost, with veiny hands and notches that strained out of his neck, but he looked strong. In his hand he held a briefcase.

Next to him, Armin realized with a start, was the boy from his history class with wild eyes. Eyes that mirrored the familiarity of Carla’s. So that's where he’d seen them.  
The boy regarded Armin for a moment, his mouth fit in a tight line across his face, harsh eyebrows pointed downwards. Armin might have been scared if not for the general small-ness of the kid, he was hardly taller than Armin, which was to say not tall in the slightest. 

“This is my husband, Grisha, and my son, Eren.” Carla started, “This is Armin.”

“I know,” said Eren, turning to Carla, “He’s in my English class,” and then turning back to Armin, "Your hair’s kinda funny.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Armin replied, feeling as though he might go home and hack it right off with a pair of kitchen scissors until it showed the back of his neck and fringed over the top of his eyes like the other boys in the grade. 

“Don’t be mad. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Armin looked at his hands at the table. He noticed how small and pink they were, and self-consciously pushed them under the table, resting on the tops of his legs. Carla placed a cup of tea in front of him. 

“Your grandfather’s a writer isn’t he? What’s he doing on the base?” Carla asked. Armin took the mug in his hands and watched as the steam weaved through the air in front of him. 

“He’s a strategist.” Armin said, “The writing was just a hobby that took off. His mind’s always on the fields, even when he’s not working. I guess he just needed an outlet for that.” 

“And your parents?” 

“Oh,” Armin started, “They died a few years back.” 

He anticipated the shocked, regretful silence that always followed. People never knew quite what to say. They always said either too much or never enough. He waited to see which category the Yeagers would fall into. 

“Armin, I’m so sorry,” Carla said, shuffling around the kitchen awkwardly, looking for something to do with her hands so that she could avert her eyes from him. He looked around, realizing they all had adverted their eyes away from him; at the floor, at the walls, at their hands, anywhere but him. Except Eren.

He looked at Armin with the same slightly crazed, slightly intrigued, questioning look. 

“It’s okay” Armin said. The job of soothing everyone always fell on him in these situations. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? He thought. 

“Grisha’s the bases’ head doctor,” Carla offered. Grisha started towards the door, nodding in acknowledgment to Armin before turning into the hallway. He’d not said a word, Armin realized as he glanced at Carla’s tired expression, watching his back as it disappeared down the hall. He heard Eren scoff so quiet he could barely hear it. 

Armin stayed in the Yeager’s kitchen, sipping tea and answering Carla’s polite questions (“Where did you move from? How long will you be staying?”) with Mikasa and Eren quietly observing. He glanced out the window to see that the reds and browns of dusk had given way to a star-freckled sky. 

“Thank you for the tea, Ms. Yeager, but my grandfather’s expecting me home before dinner.” He said. 

Carla sighed and said, “Come back with your grandfather. We hardly have any guests.”

“Right,” Armin said, collecting his coat. Suddenly Eren looked up with a sense of urgency and said,

“I’ll walk him back. Make sure his grandfather knows we saw him home.”

“You don’t have to,” Armin said, “He won’t care.”

Somehow, Eren and Armin found themselves at the Yeager’s front door together anyhow, despite Armin’s protests. 

Armin glanced at him questioningly. Eren still had a stern look on his face, even as he pulled his arms through a jacket.

“Mikasa told me you’re reading Dostoevsky” Eren said after a brief but bloated silence. Shit, Armin thought. He nodded in response, quietly praying that Eren wouldn’t ask for an elaboration.  
“Do you like reading?” Armin asked. Eren shook his head.

“I hate reading.” Eren said. 

“Oh,” Armin said.

“In theory I do. But whenever I crack open a book, the words are so small and tedious. Its easy to just have Mikasa summarize.” There was a pause before Eren started talking again. 

“You know when you’re reading a book, and sooner than later you stop seeing the words as words, and start seeing them as they are?” He looked away, towards something in the distance that Armin couldn’t make out. He wondered if Eren was looking at anything at all. 

“I guess” 

“Well I love that. That there’s a world bigger than this base just behind my eyelids.”

“Yet you don’t like reading” Armin stated. Eren shook his head, and he worried there was something he wasn’t understanding. 

“I hate reading. But I love stories.” Armin smiled. The sentiment was nice. 

“Your granddad’s a writer right? I’m sure you’ve been loads of places. I’m jealous of you. Of that.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, “Only here and California,”

Eren perked up curiously and Armin felt the need to add, “We lived up North though. We only drove down South once or twice. I saw the stars in Hollywood though. Venice mostly smells like weed.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Eren asked. 

“I guess not,” 

“Where will you go first then? When you can get out of here?”

Armin thought about it for a moment. Where wouldn’t he go? He wanted to leave the world without a mile that he hadn’t walked across. He didn’t want there to be an inch that hadn’t felt the grasp of his palm. 

“I don’t know. Maybe Amsterdam. There’s a painting I’ve always wanted to see”

“Which one?”

“Its by Carel Fabritius”

“The bird one?” 

“No,” Armin laughed, “No, not the bird one,”

“Its the only one I know. I thought maybe because its chained up, I don’t know,” Eren grinned slightly, though it rested lazily on one half of his face rather than equally across both sides. Armin noticed the smallest of dents in his smile.

“No,” Armin replied, “But I guess that would be poetic, wouldn’t it?” 

They made it to Armin’s front door and stood in front of it awkwardly, the porch light flickering unreliably, only strong enough to reach half of their features.

“Hey,” Eren looked up urgently.

“Hello.”

“Tomorrow me and Mikasa are going to the swimming hole. You should come,” Something warm and light fled through Armin's body, spreading down his back and into the tips of his fingertips. 

“Yeah, okay,” he said awkwardly, inwardly smacking himself across his forehead. 

“Do you have a bike?” 

“Of course”

“Good. Great. I’ll uh- I’ll stop by tomorrow”

Eren stood awkwardly for a few pitiful moments until he turned, without a single utterance of goodbye, and sprinted back to his porch. Armin watched as the flooding light, warm and hospitable, shrank in accordinance with the closing front door. 

He decided that it was no longer appropriate to be staring at the door, and slid open the screen door to his own cold and unfamiliar home. His grandfather flicked on a light as Armin passed through the living area. 

“Did you invite them for dinner?” He asked. 

“Yes,” Armin lied, realizing that he had simply forgot.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aka where things actually start to happen (sort of)

Armin awoke the next morning, a unmistakable taste of doom pending in his mouth. The night before had been a sleepless one, lying awake, worse-case scenarios flipping through his head like stills on a film reel. 

He shuffled in front of his bathroom mirror and stared at his reflection, thinking that it looked more painted on than real. His hair sprouted sporadically from his head, looking a bit like yellowed straw, and his eyes looked grayer than he ever previously recalled. Did that happen with age? Did blues melt into greys?

He patted his hair down lazily, wondering if it was too late to fake a sudden strike of illness or some lame chore that his grandfather might force on him last minute. In the end, he thought of no excuse that Eren and Mikasa might be deserving of. 

He woke and dressed early, leaving too much time to stare at his walls which twisted with imaginary pictures of humiliation projected onto them, only to disappear when Armin rubbed his eyes. He hated how his brain worked against him in times most needing of reassurance, of rationality. He wondered if there was anything so bad, so embarrassing he might do, that could dismantle Eren and Mikasa’s sudden interest in him, leaving him alone once again.

He heard the rattle of Mikasa’s breaks before he saw them, feeling a sudden wave of nausea wash over him relentlessly. Inhaling, he pulled open his door.

“Fucks sake, Mikasa, you need to get those fixed. The neighbors will think there’s a dying rodent, riding around the neighborhood screeching like that.” Eren was saying. 

“I don’t care, I’m not asking Grisha to buy me new ones. They’re not even that loud.” She replied quietly, still with a quality of harshness strung throughout her voice. Eren rolled his eyes and started to retort,

“Yes they are-” but Armin coughed into his fist, making them both look up at him,“-right Armin?” He added.

Armin stared between them, calculating which of them would be more dangerous to disagree with. He was unsure. 

“Don’t bring Armin into this.” Mikasa said finally, rolling her eyes. 

“The brakes aren’t too bad,” Armin started, "But maybe I could fix them before people complain.” 

He was rewarded with a triumphant, ‘HA!’ from Eren, and decided he picked correctly. 

“You’re good with mechanics?” Mikasa asked, still eyeing Eren.

“Those things usually aren’t so different in execution than they are in books,” he shrugged. “I’ve fixed up smaller things before, anyways.” Armin opened his mouth to say something else but heard his own front door push open, and turned his head to see his grandfather in the doorway, holding a helmet under his arm. 

“Forgetting something?” He said. Armin glanced over at Eren and Mikasa, neither of whom wore helmets, and back at his grandfather, willing as much fleeting emotion into his eyes as possible. 

“We won’t be going that far,” he said forcefully. His grandfather shook his head. 

“It doesn’t matter. Accidents can happen within a meter.”

Armin bit his inner cheek, wishing the cement beneath him might open up and welcome him into a fiery hell. It seemed much more appetizing than this. 

He glanced at Eren and Mikasa, who’s gaze shifted awkwardly between Armin, the floor, and each other. 

Armin sighed and snatched the helmet from his grandfather, snapping the clasp under his jaw with a dissatisfied grunt. 

“We’ll have him home by sunset,” said Eren, climbing atop his bike, Armin and Mikasa following him.

Armin watched his grandfather gradually shrink on the horizon from over his shoulder as they rode down an alley. The ride was bumpier than he was used to, often skidding over small rocks and potholes, causing Armin to inhale sharply. 

Eren and Mikasa peddled faster than Armin could with ease, leaving him to pump faster and work hard to conceal the shallow breaths he took with urgency, determined to hide his struggle. They turned through alleys, past houses and shops, and gradually the houses turned from clean, sharp, and all vaguely the same, to distinctive with long, sprawling, lawns that started to reclaim their porches. Soon enough, the houses themselves were more rare than the stretching fields of overgrown grass that was long enough to brush Armin’s knees, and the black roads turned to ones of rocky soil. There were trees whose branches swung to and fro in accordance to the changing wind, working to push the hair from Armin’s forehead, whistling past his ears. 

They had been riding in their own conversationless contentment for at least twenty minutes when Eren suddenly shouted,

“Here! Turn left!”

They twisted off the main path and started down one that was even more overtaken by nature than the previous, until eventually it became too overgrown to continue riding, and the three unmounted their bikes and started walking alongside them. 

They pushed through a particularly thick bush, one that rustled against Armin’s shoulders and arms, leaving little trails of white, grazed skin, and found themselves in an opening. 

“Here!” Eren yelled, dropping his bike to the ground and darting towards the ledge’s cliff, and disappearing beneath it as he jumped. Armin inhaled sharply and ran towards the edge, peering beneath it. 

There was Eren, floating stomach up in a water hole at least twenty feat below, surrounded by three other bodies, all laughing hollowly from the depths of their stomachs. 

“Follow me,” Mikasa said from behind him, “There’s a walkway down.”

Armin followed her down a steep hill where grass brushed against his thighs and he was sure at least one bug climbed atop him, but decided not to mention it. 

They made it down to smaller ravine where the water lapped over eroded rocks, but sunlight was still able to filter through the opening between trees. He waded uncomfortably through the waters, inch by inch, watching Mikasa trample over to the others forming a path of waves that trailed behind her in a way that struck Armin as quite poetic.

Armin recognized two of the people from his history class; the very same people he had rolled his eyes at just weeks before. He regarded them closely, eyeing them up and down and realizing that they struck him here, wet and shiny from the water, laughing without a trace of weight in their smile, as quite different from the figures he’d watched spout up meaningless strings of words in class. Internally, Armin pinched himself for every judging so harshly. 

Jean Kirstein, Armin recognized, was the tallest of the lot, and held his back straighter than most teenagers would. There was an air to his gaze that some might regard as arrogance, or perhaps vanity, but Armin suspected was well-concealed insecurity. Still, his face was geometric enough and he had the tendency to laugh above everyone else in the room, and Armin saw how girls’ eyes would sometimes stray on Jean for longer than necessary. 

Sasha Braus, who stood close to Jean, waved her arms sporadically at the boys, flipping dashes of murky water into the air. She had a face suit for sunshine and smiling, Armin noted, and had a soft sort of charisma about her that made him gravitate towards her, feeling sorry he’d ever been so inwardly cold to her. 

The last boy was one that Armin had never seen before. He was shorter than Eren and had hair cut close to the sides of his head in a choppy, buzz-cut fashion. He stood beside Sasha, swatting her arm and cursing her name as she sent water flying towards him. 

“Took you long enough,” Eren said to Mikasa, “I thought maybe you and Armin decided to wine and dine on the way down.” 

After saying this, Eren’s face perked up, as if remembering Armin’s existence for the first time. 

“Shit guys! This is Armin.” He said.

Jean eyed him with one eyebrow arched, looking him up and down. 

“You’re in Smith’s AP Lit,” He stated finally, ”But you never talk.”

“You’re right!” laughed Sasha, and then to Armin: “I read one of your essays, I think? It gave me a headache. No offense” 

“None taken” Armin replied unsurely, wondering how Sasha might have found one of his essays. Almost telepathically, she replied,

“Only ‘cause I help grade sometimes. Mr. Smith is great to let me help out.”

“Only because you were one shitty paper away from failing out of his class” said the boy Armin didn’t know, earning a harsh shove in the back from Sasha. He turned to Armin after regaining composure, both arms stuck out, swaying at his side as if walking a tightrope.

“I’m Conny,” he said in between gasps, Sasha still hurling water at him in a manner that seemed less than playful. Eventually, probably due to height and sheer willpower, Sasha submerged him in water, his laughter muffled and silenced with a meek blop that peeked from the water’s surface. 

“Watch it!” Jean yelled, swatting away the water that Conny and Sasha’s brawl had sent flying towards him, until he gave in, some small defense in his shoulders seeming to cave, and dove into the mess of pushed heads and gasps for air.

The three fought, lanky limbs tossed in and out of the water, bony feet and curled fingers scattered about the waves that wet Armin’s hair. Though their movements seemed fiery; violent, unhinged with an intent to kill, the disinterested looks on Mikasa and Eren’s faces told him this was not uncommon. After realizing this, their fight began to look almost innocent. The way a cat might nip at its toy.  
The three started to calm, their breaths growing more and more hollow until they could no longer manage to hold each other down or swat each other away. They swam in slow, slothish movements on their backs, muttering phrases like fuck you, i won yet still maintaining the same wisps of fondness in their smiles. The five of them floated on their backs lazily (Mikasa and Eren joining them once the initial chaos had dissolved) in a peaceful quiet that was only interrupted by the rare spout of laughter or sly comment from Jean. 

Armin mirrored them, unsure of what to do with his anxious, fiddling hands and limbs that seemed suddenly too long and graceless, until his fleeting anxiety melted into a sudden contentment. He felt warm in the cheeks and it had never been so easy for the upturn of his mouth to move into habit. 

He looked over to Mikasa, who’s limber ease seemed to translate nicely in water, as she floated aimlessly, never straying too far from Eren, with an aerobic grace not dissimilar from the way she walked on ground; filled with intent and reason. 

He looked over then to Eren, who lacked the grace that seemed just as inherent to Mikasa as the air she breathed or the words she spoke, but shared a similar resolve. He stared somewhere nonspecific- as he seemed to often do- with a heeding fog in his stare. 

They remained lolling around, arms sweeping in and out of the surface, until the water engraved lines into their fingers, pruned and aged like the wood of an old oak. 

They pulled themselves out of the lake, talking amongst themselves, onto a group of large rocks that were pleasantly warm and dry after bathing in the sun all day. They made for an ideal place of rest.  
Armin went to dry his hair with a forceful shake, and when he turned back to the rocks, the others had already settled. 

Eren rested, lying on his back, with his eyes closed and a stern look etched in the crease of his forehead. Mikasa sat, eyes also closed, with her head resting on the front of Eren’s upturned stomach, bodies crossed in a T formation. She held her head in a shaky, almost cautious way, as if Eren was something that was born to be broken, as if he would shatter under the slightest of pressure.  
The scene was so tender, so intimate, that Armin felt that he had violated some unspoken rule. Guiltily, he looked away, towards Connie who faced him with an unsurprised look, mouth fit loosely across his face, as if to say they do this often.

He turned his head back to Mikasa and Eren, feeling a string of something unpleasant forming in his stomach, though he couldn’t be sure who it was towards.  
Eren looked up. 

“Did we forget drinks?” He said, leaning his head forward. His sudden awakeness made Mikasa stir as well, sitting up and, in doing so, breaking contact with Eren. She sat for a moment looking at the sky through squinted eyes and dented fingers. It shown through the cracks between her fingers, leaving wild stripes of light across her face.

Sasha seemed alarmed by Eren’s question. She looked up, face laced with concern. 

“No, no no!” She started, slapping a hand on her forehead dramatically, “Did we?”

“Someone will have to ride into town to get new ones.” said Jean.

“I think Armin should,” Connie said, making Armin jump, “Make him earn his keep.” Eren kicked him in the shoulder with a bare foot, making an unpleasant splat noise. 

“Leave Armin out of this.” Eren replied “Sasha’s the most distraught. She should do it.”

“Yeah, Sash, you do it. You look like you’re gonna pop a blood vessel.”

“No way,” Sasha said, folding her arms tightly like a child much smaller might, “I can’t go alone, anyways, I’m a girl. Someone needs to come with.”

“Bullshit,” said Jean. 

“I actually don’t mind going.” Armin said meekly. Connie was right, he head to earn his keep somehow.

“You don’t know the way to the market.” Eren replied pointedly. 

“I’ll manage. I think I saw it on the way here.”

“I’ll just come with you.”

“No!” Armin near shouted, and then lowered his voice, “No, you don’t need to do that.” 

Eren shrugged and stood anyways, brushing off his knees as he straightened them out, which made a slight popping noise as the tension between joints cracked away. 

Eren held an expectant hand out in the direction of Connie, Sasha, and Jean. They looked at him, eyebrows raised questioningly, until he cleared his throat. 

“You’re batshit if you think me and Armin are gonna pay for your stuff.”

Although he was met with an eyeroll or two, the three reached into their respective pockets, pulling out crumpled bills of ones and fives. Handing them over, they pushed the money, all cramped and ugly, into Eren’s hand.

“Count this, will you?” He asked Armin as they walked towards the clearing of grass which their bikes rested.

“Eleven dollars” Armin said, hauling a leg over his bike, “Will that be enough?”

“Should be.”

Eren waited on his bike as Armin pulled his head through the hole of his shirt.

“Aren’t you gonna get your shirt? Will they even let you in without one?”

Eren shook his head, “No one here cares.”

They rode for less than ten minutes, but far enough into town for the roads to become black and paved once again, where the sound of voices was louder than the humming of birds and bugs. They pulled their bikes to a stop and leaned them against a yellow wall that looked to have started to chip and peel away many years prior. When he asked if it was safe to leave their bikes unlocked and unprotected, Eren just shrugged. 

The corner store, though small with isles that were messily stacked, was airconditioned. Armin realized, walking through the door and feeling the artificial coldness blanket his bare arms and legs, how hot it had been outdoors. 

“Over here” Eren said, leading him down a crowded isle. They turned to look at a wall of sodas, some which were labeled in English, some in Italian.

“Did they tell you what they want?” Armin asked.

“No, but its fine. I know what they like.” Eren picked out five cans, all seemingly different brands, all a different saturated color. 

“Don’t you want something?” Eren asked him, looking down at Armin’s empty hands. Armin shook his head.

“Its fine. I forgot my money at the hole, anyways.” 

Eren wordlessly picked out another can, one that matched a can that was already in his arms. Before Armin could say anything in protest, Eren marched over to the registry and dumped the cans onto the counter. 

The man behind the register was old and bald, with an inflamed face, blotched with color like he just ran a marathon. Looking down at the wad of cash Eren pushed over, he sighed with a strained face. 

“I s’pose its too much to ask that you kids flatten your bills beforehand.”

Eren pretended not to hear him, and instead turned to face Armin. 

“Do you hear that?”

Armin listened for a moment, at first only registering the beeps of the register’s scanner. He tilted his head slightly, allowing the faintest of music, violin he guessed, to waft in from a backdoor. Through the opening, he could see people standing in the alleyway, surrounding the source of music.

“C’mon,” Eren said after collecting the drinks in a plastic bag. He walked towards the back door, where the small crowd stood happily between the threshold of sunlight and indoors. 

“But our bikes-” Armin started. They were still there, leaning innocently against the wall of the building, completely unchained. 

“They’ll be fine. No one wants our bikes. Let’s just see what the crowd’s for.” 

He followed Eren out the back door until they merged with the crowd. There was a single violinist, who stood in the midst of the people, who grinned and whooped for him as the pace of his bow quickened. 

The music song he played was aggressive in nature, swatting in and out of the air in little jumps and hurls. It was anxious and fast, the best kind in Armin’s opinion. He felt something swell in his chest, the rawness of the music feeling so real and chemical around him, like it could push the bangs from his face and kiss his eyelashes. It rose in climax, reaching precariously high notes that pinched his ears.

“Do you know what song this is?” Eren said, suddenly making Armin aware of his presence once again. 

“Flight of the Bumblebee” He responded. 

“You know about classical music?” He asked. 

“Hardly. My grandpa plays it around the house. It helps him focus, I think. It’s been altered though. The music, I mean. Maybe to be played by a stand alone musician.”

The music halted to a sudden stop, and the violinist bowed deeply as the crowd swarmed around him, clapping and whispering amongst each other. 

“Here,” Eren said, pushing a wet can into Armin’s hand. It was cold and the outside sweat against his hand. 

Armin cracked open the top, listening to the sizzle of carbonation that popped out. He took a too-big sip, the carbonation burning his mouth. He thought it tasted like static, when his legs would fall asleep and every nerve in his body would start to dynamize. 

“How can you drink this,” Armin said, “It tastes like electricity”

They watched as the violinist started a new song, this one slower and slightly less impressive. They stood watching, though Armin didn’t know how long, until Eren broke the silence. 

“Gimme that,” He said, and Armin handed over the can once again. 

“The carbonation might be flat by now” Armin said. He watched Eren cringe slightly after sipping it. 

“You’re right about the way it tastes.” He said, handing it back to Armin. “Like electricity.”

They watched until the crowd began to thin into a fraction of what it once was.

“We should head back. Before the others think we’re dead.” Armin said. 

They walked back through the store’s twisted isles, littered with overflowing shelves and unorganized labels. When they had made it back to the front of the store, the sun now a darker shade of orange, floating slightly lower in the sky, there was only one bike left laying inconspicuously in the grass. 

“Shit!” said Armin, “Shit, shit, shit!” 

He brushed his hair back with both hands, palms pushing against his scalp like a madman on the verge of breakdown. He felt panic shoot through his spine, webbing across his back and down his throat, all consuming. 

“My grandfather’s gonna kill me. I’ve had the thing for years.”

Eren looked between him and the patch of grass that laid flat from the weight it once bared, which no bike laid. 

“Oh god. I’m sorry Armin. This’s never happened before.”

“How am I gonna get back? Forget the others, how am I gonna get home?”

“You can ride of the back of mine.” Armin glared at him through blonde lashes. 

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m serious! We can find you a new bike when we get back in town.”

“Fine! Fine. God, I can’t believe my bike was stolen.” 

“Neither can I.”

“We were gone for, what? Twenty minutes? I don’t think anyone else even entered the store when we were out.”

Eren nodded solemnly from atop his bike.

“Are you getting on or not? ‘Cause otherwise you’re walking back.”

Armin settled behind him feeling particularly silly. He wasn’t sure what to hold onto. At first he thought to grip the hook of Eren’s arm, but realized that would limit his ability to steer.

“You’re gonna need to hold on, or else we’ll both fall.”

“Is this safe?” 

He shrugged. “It’s safe enough.”

Armin gripped the top of Eren’s shoulders, feeling again too old and too tall in his body. When Eren started to peddle, the bike shook. It clearly wasn’t made for the weight of two people.

Every once and a while, the bike would falter, or a stop sign would force them to slow, and Armin would think perhaps the bike would simply not start its movements again; that some tedious spring might pop, or a gear might snap, and they would be stranded. But after each stop, each hiccup in the road, the bike would pick up dutifully in its pace and carry them forward. 

When Mikasa saw they returned with one bike instead of two, she said nothing. Nor did she speak when, hours later in the day, after the others had packed their things into their own bikes and rode to away to their expectant homes, the two fit tightly onto one bike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if u give me feedback ur sexy


End file.
